Dead Deer
Pinky up, carcass a tight fist;
boxer’s fracture girding
a spilled stew cup.
Psoriasis, busted knuckles,
fox work.
Buzzards flash snickersnee.
Hooves open the palm, revealing the finger ribs.
Black Bread
I hold my honey and I store my bread.
The bread is difficult to store since it sticks to my hands.
I am very hungry, and the food is healthy and nourishing.
The bread is black and the honey is orange.
I pick the crumbs off my fingers and flick them at the ants.
The ants prefer the dying worms.
I do not like the bread myself.
James Fishwick lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. A poem of his appeared in Streetlight Magazine in 2013.
